


Sick and Tired

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Season Ten, Sick Sam, copious smooching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3109217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets the flu and Dean babies the heck out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick and Tired

There were always three distinct Bad Signs that led to Sam getting incredibly, bed-ridden-for-days sick.

The first Bad Sign was sleepiness.

By itself, it didn’t really sound that bad, but a break in Sam’s strict schedule could only mean bad news. When Dean had finally gotten up after hitting snooze on his own alarm five times, Sam was still curled up under loads of blankets, mouth open as he drooled on the pillow. Sam was usually one of those people who always tried to salvage his “sleep cycle” when they weren’t being fucked over by hunting— he always got up at the same time, without fail. At around six in the morning, no snoozes.

“Saaaam,” Dean rumbled, sitting on the edge of his bed and rubbing his eyes with the bases of his palms, “it’s like, eight. Get up.”

Sam mumbled something in protest, using his nose to try to dig his face further into the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing the blankets up over his head.

Dean’s mental little brother alarm bells were already ringing, but he decided to give this one the benefit of the doubt— maybe Sam wasn’t sick, right? Maybe he just had too much root beer at that weird southern-themed diner last night. Dean stood up, arching and cracking his back, before incessantly shaking Sam by the shoulder. “Sam. Sam. Sammy.  _Sam._  C’mon. Get up.”

Sam blinked blearily up at him, looking exactly like a kicked puppy. It was one of his many talents. “I’m up,” he croaked miserably, blinking some more. “I’m up, I swear.”

“Good. I’m gonna go on a coffee run— the usual for you?”

Sam didn’t respond immediately, so Dean lightly swatted him with the newspaper that had brought them to this town with its mysterious death story on the front page. “ _Th’usuaaal_ ,” Sam slurred, “Don’t hit me.”

“Are you gonna actually be out of bed by the time I get back, kiddo?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and staring down at the huddled form of Sam in the bed. Sam nodded, eyes still closed, mumbling something that sounded like “yeah, definitely” before he curled his arms up beneath the pillow, clawing at the fabric.

“Yeah. Right,” Dean muttered to himself, grabbing his wallet and the keys before leaving the motel room.

When he came back, two steaming cups in hand, Sam was still asleep.

The second Bad Sign was a childlike grabbiness, which wasn’t all that bad, really, unless sign number one had already passed.

It was around lunch time, now, and Sam was still in bed, only the tips of his fingers, the phone he was clutching, and a little puff of brown hair visible over the sheets. Dean heard a muffled thunk and saw that Sam had dropped his phone to the floor and his eyes had fluttered shut again. Concern ramping slowly but steadily upward, Dean shut the laptop lid and got up from the kitchenette table, padding over to Sam and placing a hand softly on his forehead.

God damn it, the kid was starting to have a fever. They really didn’t need this, especially not now, on day one of a fresh case. Dean swore, and Sam nuzzled his forehead further into Dean’s hand, making a little whiney noise and hooking one of his fingers into the material of Dean’s shirt. Dean could almost physically feel his heart soften as he looked down at Sam, whose brow was all scrunched up because apparently he needed cuddles. “I’ll be right back, ‘kay?” Dean said, moving his his hand to Sam’s hair and swiping it back behind his ear. Recently, they hadn’t been that close, which hurt, but Dean was beginning to think it was just the natural progression of things.

But, he could indulge in a little Sam coddling now. It didn’t matter that he was desperately craving it— Sam was sick, right? That’s what you do with sick kids.

Dean unhooked Sam from him and went over to his own bed, where one of his backpacks was situated. He got the portable med kit out from the main pouch and found the thermometer, pressing a few buttons and turning it on.

He sat down on Sam’s bedside, and Sam almost instinctively shuffled a bit closer, yawning and opening his eyes as his knees hit the base of Dean’s back. “I know it’s cold, but keep still,” Dean ordered, watching Sam’s sleep-addled eyes narrow in suspicion as he pressed the thermometer into Sam’s ear. He waited for the thermometer to get a reading, and when it finally beeped, he was surprised to see his hand cupping the back of Sam’s head and Sam’s little smile of pleasure.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean said to himself, embarrassed, and looked down at the little reader. 102.6.  _God damn it._  Dean sighed, putting everything back in his backpack before hopping up onto the bed beside Sam and turning on the TV. “Looks like we’re staying in today,” he said to Sam, who gave no reaction, eyes still shut. Dean settled in for the long haul, making a mental list of various sicknesses Sam could’ve caught, and the corresponding medicines he’d have to buy.

By this point, Dean was certain Sam was sick, but the third Bad Sign only confirmed his fears.

The third Bad Sign was Sam’s silence.

This was a relatively new addition to the list. When Sam had finally gotten out of hell, wall up and all, Dean had watched him like a hawk for any changes in his personality, anything that shook him or caused the wall to chip and break. It was easier after Cas destroyed the wall, which wasn’t a good thing, but he noticed every time Sam jumped or froze or gasped at something. So, on the list of Post-Hell Sam Things, there was also how quiet he got when he was sick. Dean didn’t want to fucking think about what had happened to him to make him shut down whenever he felt under the weather, but it was happening now.

Sam was finally awake, and miserable, at that. He kept sniffling and coughing, rubbing at his temples and raising his head to blink slowly at the room every half hour or so, like he needed to check it was still there. He only talked in the tiniest of whispers when Dean asked a direct question, otherwise remaining tightly curled in bed and silent.

Dean bought every over-the-counter flu/cold/sore throat/animal-vegetable-mineral in the little CVS on the corner, also buying Sam his favorite stupid candies and some Ibuprofen. When he came in through the motel room door, Sam’s eyes were on him, small and watery and afraid, but tenfold times more relieved. “I just had to go get you some stuff,” Dean explained, setting the bag on the nightstand. Sam’s eyes were absolutely fucking breaking him down. “I wasn’t going to leave you,” he added on, and Sam nodded slowly, blushing. He turned away from Dean and burrowed back under the covers, sniffling once.

“Jesus christ,” Dean muttered under his breath, grabbing one of the flu medication bottles, some ibuprofen, and filling a cup with water. He set them on the nightstand, grabbing the sheets from his bed and carefully spreading them over Sam. He perched on Sam’s bed again, putting a hand softly on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy,” he whispered, encouraged when Sam opened his eyes. “Sammy, you have to take some stuff, okay? Then you can go back to sleep. Okay?”

Sam sighed, shivering and perching up on his elbows. “Okay,” he whispered, rubbing at his eyes. He was pale and shiny with sweat, his hairline glistening and his hair messy. The tips of his ears and his nose were pink and his eyes were red. Dean just wanted to climb in after him, gathering his little brother up in his arms, but he wasn’t sure if that was something they did anymore.

Clearing his throat past that thought, he helped Sam sit all the way up, putting a mass of pillows behind his back to keep him upright. He swept a hand through Sam’s hair to make it less messy then sat down next to him, thigh to thigh. He handed Sam the tiny cup of flu medicine. “It said strawberry flavored, but I think we both know not to bet on that.”

Sam huffed under his breath but reached a hand out for it. Dean gave him the cup, hovering as he watched Sam swallow it down with a scrunched up face of disgust. He’d feed it to Sam himself if Sam got too sick, but it looked like they weren’t that bad yet.

“Next one, lemme get it over with,” Sam croaked, coughing a few times. Dean handed him three Ibuprofen and the water and Sam swallowed them down before sliding back down in bed, his head on Dean’s lap. He closed his eyes, one of his hands curled up against his face.

Dean froze, unsure of what to do. Sam shuffled a bit and then made one of those sleep-sighs Dean knew so well. He’d have to be a terrible person to move now— he’d wake Sam up.

Also, though he wouldn’t dare admit it, he was so fucking glad Sam had reached out like that, because he was afraid neither of them would try. He put a hand on Sam’s head, his fingers pulling Sam’s hair out of his face and behind his ear. Sam looked so peaceful, even sickly like this. His eyelashes stood out against his cheeks and his hair curled around his jaw. Dean couldn’t stop the giant surge of affection that rose inside him, and he stroked Sam’s face, smiling down at his little brother.

He reached back and shifted his pillow carefully behind him, trying not to stir Sam. He tilted his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes, a hand entwined in Sam’s hair as he fell asleep.

When he checked Sam’s temperature in the morning, it was 103.5.

“Sam,” he called, sitting on Sam’s bed minutes later. “Sam, wake up, we’re checking out.”

Sam perked up a little at those words, opening his eyes and looking up at Dean in confusion.

“I got some hunters to come down and handle this case. Eric and Lily, you remember them? It’s not ours anymore. I’m taking you home, okay? To rest up. If you try to fight me on this I’m just gonna carry you out to the car.”

Sam stared at him for a few beats, a mixture of displeasure and love, before he nodded, pushing his sheets off of himself with a shaking hand.

“Shh, lemme help you,” Dean cooed, leaning over Sam and helping him stand. “The car’s already packed, all you gotta do is get there. Think you can?”

Sam nodded, leaning heavily against Dean, his hair brushing Dean’s jaw. He was burning and shaking, but upright. Together, they walked out to the car, and Dean helped Sam into the backseat, spreading all the blankets they had over Sam and stealing a pillow from the motel to put behind his head.

With everything all set, and more flu medicine in Sam’s stomach, Dean drove like the dickens, speeding past the miles to Kansas. He’d frequently check the rearview mirror to look at Sam, and sometimes Sam would be looking back, finding comfort in Dean’s eyes. Dean would push the pedal closer to the floor, promising Sam over the soft rock station that they’d be there soon.

Sam was worse than he’d thought.

He could barely walk into the bunker, stumbling and curling an arm around Dean for support, apologizing with an almost-silent croak. Dean put Sam in his room, not Sam’s, because it was closer to the exit just in case Sam didn’t get any better and they needed a hospital. He swaddled Sam like a fuckin’ baby in blankets, giving him breakfast in bed and letting him have complete remote privileges. Sam still barely spoke, but he looked at Dean a lot, in a way Dean used to catch him at in the car or in the library, before Sam turned away and spoke, changing the subject.

One night, Dean woke to Sam crying hoarsely and wetly, feebly trying to get closer to him. “P-please,” Sam whispered, voice wrecked. “I don’t want to burn an-anymore, please.”

And Dean had thought, f _uck it, fuck any boundaries that we put up along the way, fucking fuck it, he doesn’t deserve this_ _,_  and he had shushed and murmured little nothings to Sam, wrapping his arms around him as tightly as possible and planting a kiss to the top of Sam’s head. Sam had sniffled again, gasping for breath, pressing his nose into the spot where Dean’s neck met his ear, shaking and shuddering.

Dean rubbed his hands up and down Sam’s back, telling him he wasn’t in Hell, he was here, and he was going to fucking get better, god damn it, or Dean was gonna march right to god and demand an answer. Sam eventually quieted, but Dean kept him securely in his arms, falling asleep with thoughts of Sam in his mind and the smell of Sam all around him.

Neither one of them complained about the coddling, and both of them knew the other had been starved for it and wanted it desperately. It took Sam days to get better, a slow crawl, leaving Dean crawling up the walls and 911 almost dialed a thousand times. They stayed together 24/7, watching crappy movies and eating crappy food.

When Sam’s fever was finally gone and he started talking more, his voice strong, Dean kept him in his bed for two more days, just to be safe. Just to keep feeling Sam before this disappeared.

On the morning of the third day, Dean slowly woke to a light pressure on his face. He opened his eyes, curious, and found the pads of Sam’s fingers on his cheeks, tracing patterns in his freckles. Sam’s eyes were wet and wide and his expression was so fucking raw, and he stared back at Dean fearlessly, not removing his fingers.

“I almost wish I had the flu again to keep this going,” he whispered, his fingers bumping across Dean’s nose before he removed them.

Dean’s heart was catching in his throat with all his fucking oxygen, and he blinked away moisture, nodding. “What if we could keep doing this even when you’re not sick, and neither of us holds back or acts fucking stupid like we have been. Deal?”

Sam smiled, his bottom lip wobbling. “Deal.”

Dean smiled back, just as tenderly, even though he was nervous as hell. “Good,” he said, “because if you said no deal, I was going to fucking wonder what the hell you’ve—”

Dean’s sentence was interrupted by Sam’s lips on his, gentle but confident, and it wasn’t an accident, and they weren’t going anywhere. Dean put a hand on Sam’s forearm, pushing with a little force, and Sam pulled back, eyes widening.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Dean told him quietly before Sam could say anything.

“I’m not sick anymore, Dean.”

“My point still stands.” Dean shook his head. “This isn’t— we’re not—”

“Do you want this?” Sam asked him, linking their fingers between them. “Answer me honestly.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean whispered, like worship, and shook his head again looking away. “Sammy—”

“I think I got my answer.” Sam was smiling at him kindly, like he accepted what was between them, like they were okay. Dean wasn’t as sure.

Dean’s heart was beating wildly in his chest as he watched Sam lean forward again and close his eyes, and this time he kissed Sam back, his hand still on Sam’s forearm, just feeling him.

Sam’s lips were very soft and very easy to urge apart with his own. He kissed Sam progressively deeper, licking into his mouth, and Sam didn’t stop him, letting out little breathy moans as his hands wandered all over Dean.

After awhile, they pulled apart, staring at each other with some new understanding, some other place inside them unlocked and unburdened. Dean ran his hand up and down Sam’s arm and smiled over at his brother.

“I think I have some room on my shelves for your stuff. And I’m only using the top half of the dresser, so.”

“Why are you only using the top half?” Sam smiled back.

“Uh, you know.” Dean cleared his throat. “For uh, you know, little brothers and stuff.”

“You idiot,” Sam said, still grinning, dimples out. He kissed Dean again lightly. “I would love to move in with you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to share a house with you, we’ve only just met,” Dean gasped dramatically, blinking at Sam. “Though you do kiss like a pro as it turns out.”

“You’re the one who taught me, remember?”

“Ah.” Dean traced Sam’s dimples. “That’s definitely why.” He kissed Sam again, just for the hell of it, feeling Sam’s smile underneath his lips.

“Shut up, you egotistical jerk.” Sam laughed.

“Mmm,” Dean muttered, utterly content, and kissed Sam again, tilting his face with his hand and lapping into his mouth, enjoying the feel of it. “Bitch.”


End file.
